


Casualty

by Tridraconeus



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: ...kind of, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Pre-ship, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Stabbing, Videotaping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: “Get off of him you perv piece ofshit!”Frank grabbed the Clown by the shoulder and tore him back, knife lodging itself into his ribcage. Joey yelled something to the same end and joined in. He loved the way his knife looked as he swung it. Loved the sound it made, and the sounds of distress they won. The Clown couldn’t fight back against them as they dragged him to the ground— Frank straddling him and driving his knife into his chest and shoulders, Joey stabbing his belly and hips.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	Casualty

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to my friend who described Joey and Frank as “dirtbag knights in shining hoodies” because that’s IT that’s exactly it

“Get off of him you perv piece of _shit_!” Frank grabbed the Clown by the shoulder and tore him back, knife lodging itself into his ribcage. Joey yelled something to the same end and joined in. He loved the way his knife looked as he swung it. Loved the sound it made, and the sounds of distress they won. The Clown couldn’t fight back against them as they dragged him to the ground— Frank straddling him and driving his knife into his chest and shoulders, Joey stabbing his belly and hips. 

It took a full two minutes for him to stop moving. There was a lot to stab _through_. Even then, he made wet, gurgling laughing noises for a long couple of seconds after Joey stood and wiped his knife off on his knee— looked at the person on the bed. 

With his face tilted up against the grungy, yellowed pillow it took Joey a moment to realize that he recognized the guy. A survivor, obviously. One of the _medics_. 

He took it upon himself to watch over and protect his teammates, and they loved him for it. They would brighten up in his presence like tired little flowers rejuvenated by the sun. It was annoying as fuck. He’d been thrashing around and yelling but now he was laying completely, hollowly still, and that was infinitely, terribly worse.

Frank was still stabbing the Clown, breath harsh and staccato through the porcelain of his mask, because he’d been looking for an excuse to get needlessly, viciously, _breaking the rules_ violent, and it wasn’t as if he could sit on a survivor’s corpse and stab it over and over because that would be wasting valuable trial time. 

Joey hadn’t seen him go so crazy for a long time. He didn’t want to look at the limp, naked lump on the Clown’s bed yet, so he took the Clown’s other side and started stabbing him again too. It made faint sucking, thudding noises every time it went in and out. 

“Fuck,” Frank said, once the red haze had faded away somewhat. His voice was ragged from the exertion. “Fuck, we should get him, huh?”

The survivor had just been laying there. He was tied back with ropes around his wrists and ankles so his legs were spread above him and he was folded in half. Joey avoided looking at any bit of him below the waist and then avoided looking at him wholesale, staring down at the bloody, garish ringmaster gear and the bloated, pincushioned body wearing it. 

“You wanna?” 

“Pussy,” Frank grumbled, and pushed off of his knee to both feet. He flipped the knife like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Figuring it out after a moment of hesitation, he sliced through the ropes securing the survivor’s limbs to the headboard. They flopped down bonelessly. 

“C’mon up,” he aimed imperiously down, and predictably nothing happened, so he reached down to haul the survivor to a sitting position by the shoulder, and that was when he decided to strike; both arms wrapping around one of Frank’s, fingers digging in, his face finding Frank’s shoulder and burying itself there as Frank hissed in alarm and displeasure. Joey stood, himself, and stomped over to the video camera. It was an old thing, bulky, still recording. He shut it off (tried to) and eventually went the _direct_ route and just pried the tape out. 

“C’mon, man, let go,” Frank was trying to negotiate with the naked survivor clinging onto his arm like a limpet. 

_Fuck_. They didn’t even know his name. It wasn’t like they could _ask_. Joey’s grip tightened so strongly around the tape that the edges dug into his palms past the gloves and he tossed it to the ground. It clattered and flipped, and then he was kneeling to pick it up again because he spotted the Clown’s crabbed, loopy script sharpied on the backside. 

_Quentin_ , it said. 

He flashed the tape at Frank and hoped he could see that far and was paying attention, but Frank was already giving him a _dude, help me!_ look and still unsuccessfully trying to remove Quentin from his arm.

“Quentin?”

Oh, thank god. Joey tossed the tape away again as if it might burn him the second Frank repeated the name. A few seconds later, Joey caught the slight bob of Quentin’s head as he nodded, face still smushed against Frank’s shoulder. 

“Okay.” Frank’s voice was less incensed, more unsteady, trying to be confident but obviously chewing on his words. “ _Quentin._ ” 

Repeating his name seemed to be helping, but Joey couldn’t really tell. He just hoped it was. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

_Well, duh_ , Joey thought. He started looking around for anything that looked like it belonged to Quentin so they could grab his shit and get the fuck outta dodge before the Entity brought back the Clown and he found all three of them twiddling their thumbs in his carriage. 

“Can you sit down for me?” Joey tuned back in just in time to see Quentin release his death grip and nod again, only to half-bend to sit on the bed and abruptly think better of it and then positively barrel past Joey and over the body of the Clown, still naked, into the dead air of the asylum grounds. 

“—the fuck,” Joey managed. 

“Whoa, hey,” Frank managed as well, voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Quentin!” 

His attention turned to Joey, hands flying up in a half-pissed half-frustrated _what now_ type gesture. “What the fuck do we do!”

“I dunno, I’ve never done this before!” God, he wished he could stab the Clown a few more times, because this was their problem now and it was a _big_ fuckin’ problem. Quentin wasn’t like this. He was stupidly brave, selfless to a fault, and even if he was scared he wouldn’t _flinch_ like that.

“—shit,” Frank hissed, and also ran past Joey to chase after Quentin before he got disemboweled by the Nurse or something.

Thankfully, he was just huddled up against a tree, hugging himself and still looking hollow, and afraid, and lost. The insides of his thighs were shiny and wet. Joey felt sick and looked at his face again, eyes glassy and dazed with a ring of bruises around his neck, and felt somewhat less sick. 

Joey took a step forward to grab the fool before he ran off again, but Frank grabbed _his_ elbow and held his other hand out— warding, to Quentin, like Quentin would dart off if they got too close for comfort. 

He probably would. They killed him, after all, often with extreme prejudice, and he was fucked up right now. 

“Do you wanna wait out here with me and Joey’ll keep looking for your shit— I mean, stuff?” Frank offered cautiously, a blind attempt to ameliorate the situation somewhat. His grip on Joey’s arm gradually eased once he figured out that Joey really wasn’t going to spring at Quentin and scare him off again, send him running naked into the fog. It would be funny if they didn’t know the context behind it, the idea of Quentin showing up to a trial buck naked. “You don’t have to go back in there.”

Frank finally let go of his elbow and pulled his own mask off. Then, he elbowed Joey, a message that he should do the same. 

“My name’s Frank,” he said, voice not soft but not _harsh_ either, just a kind of restrained tightness. He was still running off of virulent, frenzied anger from the Clown, and it was just spilling over into spite and wanting to make sure the kid was going to be okay to rub it in the Clown’s face. Right? Joey pulled off his own mask and held it at his side, fingers digging into the fabric and plastic.

“I’m Joey.” 

When he got no reply, he took a step back. His stomach was starting to turn again. His chest felt sore, his throat was tight, his mouth was dry. He didn’t want to have to keep looking at this. “I’m gonna go find your clothes, okay?”

He turned and retreated to the carriage without waiting for an answer he knew he wasn’t going to get anyway. 

He heard the muffled sound of one-sided conversation outside the carriage as he pulled Quentin’s clothes from other piles of shit. Frank was talking to Quentin in a steady, low voice. Again, he reflected on just how _above and beyond_ they were going for this stupid kid. 

He finally gathered up what he thought were all of Quentin’s clothes and hustled outside the carriage and into the fresher air, head starting to spin just the slightest bit from the ages-old buildup of tonic-- he was all too happy to escape the drugged miasma and retreat to where Frank and Quentin were conversing. They were sitting against a tree, Frank’s arm around Quentin’s shoulders, his varsity jacket draped over Quentin’s knees to hide his privates.

“I’ve got your clothes!” Joey called out unnecessarily. He dumped them in front of him in a sad, bloody pile.

“—Hey, your clothes!” 

Frank was trying to get him to react, to say something, to act at least a _little_ normal. 

He mumbled out an ” _okay_.” Frank scooted away from him, tucked his legs underneath himself and grabbed onto the back of Joey’s jacket to haul himself to his feet. 

Quentin got up slowly. He picked up his clothes, and started to dress.

“It’s the tonic,” Frank explained. His voice was pained and hopeful. Joey knew damn well that _Frank_ knew that it wasn’t the tonic. Quentin had held the shirt like he didn’t know what to do with it and when he managed to get it on he’d put it on _backwards_. Frank left it as it was and helped him tug on his vest, then the varsity jacket after. Joey looked away as Frank _dressed_ the damn guy. 

If it was just him, he probably would have done the same, and he was definitely pussying out by making Frank handle Quentin in all his fucked-up mess, but wasn’t Frank the leader for a reason? Joey huffed to himself, playing with his knife, watching Frank help Quentin slip into his shoes. Why couldn’t things be normal? Quentin, normally, wasn’t like this. He would have stabbed the Clown with something and ran off, tonic be damned, because nothing could stop him. _Normally,_ Joey would hate that. 

This sucked. 

Quentin was leaning against Frank again, not quite crying but making hitched choking noises. He wasn’t shaking. He was hugging himself. Staring at the ground. He looked a little warmer now, with his shirt back on, and his vest, and Frank’s varsity jacket, his cross and coin on their little silver chain tucked beneath the whole mess.

“We’re gonna take him back to Ormond.” 

Frank was speaking in his _I’m-the-leader_ voice, which meant he knew Joey was going to argue and wanted to preemptively shut him down. Joey crossed his arms, staring at the both of them.

“Don’t you mean take him back to the fire so the rest of those little shits can deal with this?” 

Joey didn’t make a point of squabbling with Frank in front of others, if at all, but this is a distinctly unwise decision that he just _knows_ they’re going to regret one way or another. 

“You think he’s gonna get back in his state? ‘Sides, Ormond’s closer,” Frank growled right back, the grim set of his jaw brooking no argument. “We let him wait this shit out, we send him off. He’s not gonna do shit.” 

Joey couldn’t argue with that. Hell, Quentin was still standing there, leaned vacantly against Frank and staring somewhere off into the distance and sending him to stumble around in search of the campfire felt too much like signing his death warrant. It was different in trials, he told himself.

“Let’s get out of here before the Clown gets back,” he said instead of anything else. Frank put his mask back on, but Joey didn’t miss the smug expression on his face. He brought up the back as Frank led them to Ormond, Quentin following along. Frank pushed him down onto one of the couches in the firepit area, tossed a moth eaten old afghan over him, and both he and Joey retreated to the upstairs rooms that they’d claimed for their own. 

Joey knew Frank liked Quentin. He was an annoying little shit in trials; it was grudging respect that manifested as virulent hatred. _Territorial_ hatred, too. Frank liked someone he could beat down over and over again who just kept coming back for more, and Quentin was _that_. He’d been Mori’d by Frank more times than he’d been properly sacrificed, if Joey had to guess. If Quentin had an ounce of sense, he’d stop being a hero and just go for the gate. Joey didn’t know what to think about this. 

He reassured himself that Quentin would be gone soon, would be back to normal soon, would be throwing himself in the blade’s way as he normally did, and things would be fine. When he ventured downstairs Frank was sprawled out on the couch opposite Quentin, asleep. Quentin was not. He had wrapped himself up in the afghan and was pressed as far back into the couch as he could be. 

“How ya doin’?” He tried to sound casual. Quentin looked at him, and to his relief he seemed _much_ better. There was focus there, still a bit hazy but no longer afraid. 

“I’m doing okay.” 

God, did he think Joey was stupid? Joey got it, though. He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of an enemy either. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Joey continued, to let him know that he hadn’t. Joey didn’t fucking _blame_ him for being fucked up. He sat down close to, but not _too_ close to, Quentin. “It was pretty fucked up.”

Frank was awake. Joey could tell by how he was laying, stiffer now. Listening in. 

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” Quentin replied. Joey froze. What the _hell_ was he supposed to say to that? It was disgusting that Quentin should say that so easily, and Quentin himself seemed to notice that as well, because he laughed; to ease the tension, to apologize for the brash outburst. Joey laughed awkwardly, but he didn’t really mean it. Frank growled and sat up, mussing up his already-messy hair in an attempt to tame the bedhead. 

“It’s been long enough. I’ll take him back to the campfire.” 

Joey nodded, watching as Frank hauled Quentin up by the arm. He extricated himself from the afghan and trotted along at Frank’s side, a little wobbly even now. 

“Thank you,” he said to Frank again. Joey almost didn’t pick it up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank grumbled. “Woulda killed that bitch anyway.” 

They disappeared into the snow outside, and Joey popped on his mixtape. And things were normal, again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended to be pre-shippy Morrismith but for obvious reasons! Yaint. Working title "clownhate". Please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed this! I love hearing what people think of my writing.


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